Rough Draft: Done

I finished out November with 50,318 words. I was so close to the end of my story, too. I figured it would take a few days to completely finish everything.

Well, I just typed “The End” yesterday, almost a month and 18,000 words later. 18,000 words in one month is pretty sad compared to November’s pace, but that’s always how it is. I am proud to say that I’ve written something every day since mid-September, and while most of that will come to nothing, I’m still pretty impressed with myself for managing it.

I know when the last day I didn’t write was because I’m keeping track of it in my bullet journal. With this kind of thing, I tend to think the hype is kind of silly. And I still do, do a point, but it’s also been helping me a lot, so I really can’t complain.

I actually taught a bullet journal workshop with a friend a couple weeks ago, and now I’m helping my mom and brothers set up their own. It’ll be interesting to see how they use it, considering how differently from me they think. They’re already doing things that are incomprehensible to me—one of my brothers did his entire habit tracker in red pen. I don’t know how he looks at it. But if that’s what works for him, hey.

I think because of this, because I’ve been consistently working on self-improvement since August, and in a way that I can see measurable improvement, I don’t feel as stressed out this time of year as I usually do. Most of the time, when the new year rolls around, I feel really frustrated with myself because I’m not doing enough. In fact, last year I wrote a letter to myself to be opened on the 31st, and I don’t remember what’s in it, but I remember feeling very unhappy when I wrote it. So that should be fun to read on Saturday.

This year has been pretty okay. Last year, I wanted to have moved out and moved on with my life by this point. But I got to travel, and visit friends and family. Now I have a job that isn’t terrible, and growing savings, and I just finished the rough draft of a novel I’d like to edit. And I have a vague plan. That’s pretty good, for me.

So, by this point next year, I hope I am living somewhere else. I hope I’ve gotten to see things that I haven’t seen before, and that I’ve been able to spend time with people I care about. I’m not sure I can really ask for much more than that. The future is mysterious and unknowable. And that’s okay.